


Our Office Romance

by tourdefierce



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bitchslapping, M/M, Sassy, Semi-Public Sex, Snark, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tourdefierce/pseuds/tourdefierce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has irrational needs because Eames is Eames and is infuriating. There is also a closet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Office Romance

**Author's Note:**

> This is all agenttrojie's fault. Her said: _"I would give my left nut, as our betesticled friends say, for Arthur/Eames, screwing around while working. Bonus if Cobb is not as oblivious as he's usually painted."_ and I've delivered this short little PWP. agenttrojie also beta'd this (she's amazing) and any remaining mistakes are my own.

"This is delightfully unprofessional," Eames is saying, gleefully and downright giddy. Arthur hates himself, mostly, in this moment but shuts the closet door and locks the pathetic, standard lock. It's not going to stop anyone from walking in on them but Arthur has pretty much zero patience for anything that isn't sex right now. 

So, instead of walking out the door and leaving Eames with his stupidly hot body in this closet, he's turning around and hissing, "take off your damn pants". 

"But darling, I thought you said—"

Arthur glares, not bothering to care or wait for Eames' compliance. They've got about twenty minutes before Cobb shows back up from lunch and this is going to take at least twenty-three minutes. They do not have time for Eames' particular brand of amusing but time-consuming bullshit. 

So Arthur helps him with his belt, albeit a bit roughly. "Oo," Eames coos in his face, breath smelling like tomatoes and sausage from his full English that morning. It's disgusting. It makes Arthur want to bite his tongue off and let him choke on his own blood. 

Instead, he gets Eames' fly open and leans against the wall and starts on his own. 

"I'd really like it," Arthur says, pushing his trousers down to his ankles and slipping one shoe off, so that only one of his legs is trapped. "If you'd shut up and get on your knees, Eames." 

"You're not really asking very nicely," Eames replies, hand on his dick, stroking it through ugly, threadbare boxers. Arthur wants to clutch his briefs in response but they go the same way as his suit trousers. 

"Please don't be a dick," Arthur says but it's not dignified. And how could it be? His own dick is hard, has been for about an hour, and it's _leaking_ , actually making him feel wet and not really... he is getting off with Eames in a closet, in their work-place, on a time-constraint because he's colleagues were to be returning soon. There is literally nothing in the world less dignified. 

"Don't be a dick, just suck yours?" Eames offers but he's pressing their mouths together, his smiling lips against Arthur's scowling ones. "Your seduction technique leaves something to be desired." 

Arthur is about to make a reply but Eames is sinking down, wasting no time in taking Arthur's cock in his mouth and sucking way too hard on the head, because he's a contrary bitch like that. Arthur doesn't whimper but the way his hands tighten in Eames' hair is enough of a concession. There is no way Eames will fix his hair before they go back to work and it will be obvious. Bastard. Eames will smirk and _preen_ , while Arthur wallows in self-pity and wonders where his self-respect went when he started admitted to people (even his _mother_ ) that sleeping with Eames was probably a semi-permanent thing.

Although their sex is amazing, it probably can't transcend death—which, is sort of a undeniable fact of their line of business. But permanent as permanent is going to get with criminals.

Arthur bites his lip and refuses to moan at how hot it is that they are consistently having wild sex and Eames' really plush mouth is shamelessly rubbing all over the shaft of Arthur's dick. 

Eames hums, hot and wet and fuck, this is exactly what Arthur had been thinking about. Why couldn't Eames just be a little bit uglier or less good at taking cock down his throat like a rent boy—Arthur swore it was only because Eames delighted in using any of Arthur's weaknesses against him, just to be fickle, creating some new ones. 

"Fuck," Arthur breathes out and Eames is all but smirking at him, mouth pulled taut over the swell of Arthur's cock. "Eames—fuck, just get on with it." 

But Eames refuses to suck any harder than in the light teasing fashion that drives Arthur mad. Instead, lifting one hand, he waves it in the air and then brings it to his own cock to jack himself off at a rough and entirely different pace than his mouth.

"You multi-tasking cunt," Arthur hisses out but then Eames pops off, spit and probably salty precome making its way unchecked down Eames' chin. "What—"

"I can only do one thing, love, if that makes you feel better." 

He's smug now and Arthur loathes him. 

They stand at a bit of a stalemate. Arthur is not going to _ask_ Eames to get back to it and Eames is just, sitting on his heels, pulling at his cock at a furious pace. Arthur wants to close his eyes, find his composure again and walk away but it's hard when the purpling head of Eames cock keeps pushing through the tight ring of his fingers. It's like it's winking at him and that's disgusting and horrible and Arthur wishes that Eames would just die already, instead of filling Arthur's mind with thoughts of just sitting on Eames' dick, hell with the consequences. (Arthur wouldn't be surprised if Eames' cock had some sort of weird, foreskin-enabled-peek-a-boo hypnotism going on.)

"Come on then," Eames is saying, when Arthur refocuses on his face. "We both know what you're really whining for." 

He could protest. He really could. He could fight it out and come down Eames' throat, let Eames jack off on his Italian leather loafers but—but then, Eames would be disappointed and Arthur would probably still be hard in two hours time. Because he would be left... wanting.

"Fucking _fine_ ," he snarls but Eames is turning him over before he can move, giving his ass a smack before peeling both of his cheeks apart and—

"You mother _fucker_ ," Arthur yells. Eames' mouth is hot, mostly tongue but way, way too much teeth, as he makes out with Arthur's hole like they're fifteen and making out in the backseat of someone's father's car. 

Arthur's snarling, overstimulated and fuck, fuck. "Watch your fingers, you ass." 

Eames doesn't. He pushes two wide fingers, probably dirty with ink and not washed since this morning, into Arthur's spit-slick hole. They drag, too dry and riddled with hangnails and rough cuticles and so, so fucking good. If Arthur wasn't trying to keep it all together, desperately trying not to beg for more, he'd gather the motor skills to punch Eames in the head. 

Instead, he pushes back on those bastard fingers and grinds down until Eames finally pummels into his prostate. The sloppy sound of Eames' mouth is obscene—if Arthur was worried about his hair earlier, it's even more obviously that Eames isn't taking care to be tidy and instead get Arthur as soaked with spit as possible. The sound is harsh, loud in the room and Arthur's internal clock mourns. 

"I hate you," Arthur moans out, unravelling fast, but Eames just laughs, his mouth moving to suck a hickey on Arthur's ass cheek. Then he drags his teeth, crooked and awful, up to Arthur's hip where he bites down. "Oh, fuck, oh! Eames, you sonofabitch." 

The fingers are brutal and stretching for a cock that won't come, not until tonight, but they're _so wide_. Arthur covers a whimper with a groan and ignores the way he is, without a doubt, humping the wall. Unfortunately, Eames decides that he's going to do not such thing. 

"There you go, babe," he whispers, breath hot against Arthur's cheeks and blowing occasionally on his stuffed hole. "Go ahead and rub your dick agains the wall there—your pretty, dignified little self-righteous prick all over that wall. Get it wet." 

And dammit, but Arthur is. Eames pushes until Arthur's leg is half-way bent and he's smearing his really wet and embarrassingly messy cock all against the wall.

It feels amazing. 

"I'll just eat you out, then while you occupy yourself riding that wall and my hand," Eames says, casual, if a little breathless. "You taste lovely, in case you were wondering." 

Eames' tongue joins his fingers, licking and delving up inside of Arthur until Arthur is on the edge. The friction is just barely enough and he jerks his hips harder, grinding down on Eames' fingers as one of Eames teeth catches on the rim of Arthur's abused hole and—

He comes on a choked sob, one fist denting the drywall as he jerks. He's streaking the wall in front of him and probably making a right mess of his waistcoat but it's hard to care when Eames is _sucking_ on his hole and pushing so hard on his prostate that he's certainly he'll bruise with Eames' fingerprints there. 

Arthur isn't done coming when he suddenly feels the heavy pressure of Eames' chest on his back and the hot soaking spurt of Eames' come on his ass and his thighs. 

Eames grunts into Arthur's ear. 

Arthur tries really hard to be repulsed. But then Eames is shaking his dick, sort of fluttering the head on Arthur's ass like they're staring in a _porn film_. But even as Arthur sputters in indignation, Eames continues to just flick the head of his still wet, weakly spitting dick all over the flushed skin of Arthur's ass. 

He is literally smearing his come into Arthur's skin, using his dick as a paintbrush.

Arthur is going to kill him. 

"I'm going to tie you up and leave you in Bosnia," Arthur pants out.

Eames laughs, then he pokes the head of his dick into Arthur's hole, just enough to make a point—making them both hiss with oversensitivity and notice that yes, Arthur has reached back to clutch at Eames in a clingy, don't-ever-stop-touching-me sort of way. When he pulls out, it makes a squelchy little sound that has Arthur's dick twitching and his dignity mourning. 

"But they'd cut off my fingers and you'd miss me dreadfully," Eames replies. 

Then licks a stripe up Arthur's ear. 

They only get into one slapping fight before they exit the closet. Cobb is there, Arthur's salad clutched in one hand and a QuickTrip Big Gulp in the other. His cheeks are pink and Arthur hates everyone. 

"You better not have used the handkerchief my daughter gave you to wipe your Eames-tainted come off the surfaces... again," Cobb says, squinting. Arthur must give him credit, there is something about the way he says Eames' name like an STI that makes Arthur so very happy. 

"Cobb—"

Eames wastes no time, moving around Arthur to take his salad out of Cobb's hand and says, "Cheers, Dom. Do I have come on my face?" 

Arthur watches in horror as Cobb nods, leaning in to _wipe it off with a napkin_. 

Then Eames absconds with his salad and Cobb just, stares at Arthur—all disappointed and twitchy, like he'd rather be anywhere else but needs must. 

"Back to work, perverts!" Ariadne yells, coming in the warehouse with Yusuf and Arthur takes this as his cue to run after Eames and get his salad back.


End file.
